Whether I'm gonna curse you out or
Take you back to my house
Take you back to my house
Flora gasps, scandalized. "Excuse you," she says, sitting up just enough to point a sharp, accusing finger at him. "I'll have you know Mr. Bumble is a cultural icon and a war hero, and if you’d like to question his credentials, he accepts duel challenges Tuesday through Friday, after his morning nap." Her voice is perfectly deadpan, but the gleam in her eyes betrays the smirk tugging at her mouth. She sinks back down and sighs, theatrically tragic. "Besides, I'd said he'd confess to something unrelated. I always bring up my sleeping preferences on a date."
His foot nudges hers and she doesn’t pull away, letting the quiet motion tether her to something that isn’t spinning out of control. It’s not much, but it’s steady; enough to hold her in place a little longer.
She huffs a quiet laugh at his impression, equal parts amused and fond. "Honestly, they'd just make that drink into an official cocktail and name it after one of my failed relationships, I expect." Her fingers drift along the polished wood of the table, tracing a lazy path through a constellation of old water rings. The Koa, probably, for how the dragoon had worn his heart on his sleeve even when Flora had pulled out the fabric shears and began cutting.
Kaisel slumps, and Flora glances over as his voice follows, softer now. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment—his arms folded, his face turned to her, the quiet weight of the moment stretching long between them. The edges of her mouth lift, crooked and tired and maybe a little sad. "Okay," she says, after a moment. Not like she’s giving in, but like she’s agreeing to something unspoken. But still, she doesn't move either.
Instead, because she has long nails and he's all hunched forward, Flora’s fingers lift from the table, drifting toward him as if pulled by some gravity too gentle to name. Her nails skim lightly over the fabric at his back—barely there, just the softest trickle of pressure down his spine. It’s absentminded, maybe, or maybe not. The kind of quiet, intimate touch that doesn’t ask for anything in return. The kind she’d learned not to offer Jack, and never dared miss until now.
His foot nudges hers and she doesn’t pull away, letting the quiet motion tether her to something that isn’t spinning out of control. It’s not much, but it’s steady; enough to hold her in place a little longer.
She huffs a quiet laugh at his impression, equal parts amused and fond. "Honestly, they'd just make that drink into an official cocktail and name it after one of my failed relationships, I expect." Her fingers drift along the polished wood of the table, tracing a lazy path through a constellation of old water rings. The Koa, probably, for how the dragoon had worn his heart on his sleeve even when Flora had pulled out the fabric shears and began cutting.
Kaisel slumps, and Flora glances over as his voice follows, softer now. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment—his arms folded, his face turned to her, the quiet weight of the moment stretching long between them. The edges of her mouth lift, crooked and tired and maybe a little sad. "Okay," she says, after a moment. Not like she’s giving in, but like she’s agreeing to something unspoken. But still, she doesn't move either.
Instead, because she has long nails and he's all hunched forward, Flora’s fingers lift from the table, drifting toward him as if pulled by some gravity too gentle to name. Her nails skim lightly over the fabric at his back—barely there, just the softest trickle of pressure down his spine. It’s absentminded, maybe, or maybe not. The kind of quiet, intimate touch that doesn’t ask for anything in return. The kind she’d learned not to offer Jack, and never dared miss until now.
flora
I haven't decided yet
But I'm gonna get you back
But I'm gonna get you back
